Miles To Go Before We Sleep
by Rose and Psyche
Summary: On the night of Christmas Eve, Peter and Susan return home under the gaze of the moon, the stars, and the yellow eyes of wolves. Merry Christmas! Written for the Narnian Holiday Prompt Contest. Prompt: Roaring Fires


Miles To Go Before We Sleep

* * *

 _The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

 _But I have promises to keep,_

 _And miles to go before I sleep,_

 _And miles to go before I sleep._

~ Robert Frost

* * *

Moon.

A Million Stars.

And the greeny-yellow eyes of wolves.

The moon looked down with a face that burned through the coldly burning air, as if, since last night, a layer of tarnish had been buffed off with a stiff brush. The stars murmured, their songs sweet and soft, almost indistinguishable from the soft hissing of falling snowflakes. The wolves flickered through the trees, silver, with yellow eyes catching in the moonlight. Their paws were soft and silken in the snow, much quieter then the thud of the horses' hooves.

"Susan," Peter said, his voice muffled and blunt in the falling snow. "Look to your horse."

Moving clumsily and dully in the cold, Susan reached forward along her mare's neck, found her nose and began to snap off the accumulated icicles that had grown around her wide-flared nostrils. The horse began to breathe more easily, its shuddering shoulders relaxing.

"Too cold," Susan murmured. Or at least, tried to murmur. Her face was stiff as frozen fabric; her mouth would no longer form words, and there was no warmth to be had from her horse. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see the dancing reflections of firelight, flickering against a shadowed wall.

It was Christmas Eve, and Peter and Susan had been away a week, sorting out a dispute in the North. Now they were going home, and they had been traveling since morning, stopping to rest on the way. They had left a quiet inn about two hours before, when the sun was still low in the sky. It had not been cold then, only chilly, and as they rode, they had watched the sun set, drawing a gilded curtain in the western sky, to glimmer with flecks of gold through the silent trees. The stars followed, dazzling and cold, hardly distinguishable from the snowflakes blown off the trees that fell and flashed in the moonlight.

Susan's voice was bright like bells in the cold as she talked on and laughed about Things…nothing in particular…just things. How happy Edmund and Lucy would be when they arrived back at Cair Paravel in time for Christmas; how the great Christmas tree would tower with a thousand lights…just like the stars…

"Yes," Peter said with a fond smile as he looked towards his sister, trying to make out her fine-featured face under the shroud of her fur-lined cloak. Wisps of her hair were loose and curling in the dark. He wished all that she said would be so, simply for her sake.

It had been beautiful at first; a glory of solemn winter, shrouded trees, and untouched humps of blue glittering snow…until they heard the low, bone-chilling bay of wolves.

Susan pulled up her mare and listened, "Do you hear it, Peter?"

They listened as silence as the howls wove in and out of each other like strange harmony in a stranger song. Peter swallowed and leaned from his saddle to take Susan's mare by the bridle to urge her forward again.

"We'll outpace them," he said, but he knew that Susan knew that even the swiftest horse could never outpace a wolf. "Hurry, now."

It was all plunging hooves and snorting horses, and branches whipping in their faces after that. There was not a moment to look up at the stars, only to peer ahead along the trail, imagining every shadow that crouched behind a shrouded tree was ready to spring. Peter fell behind, calling to Susan to lead; if the wolves attacked, they were more likely to choose the one that followed.

The horses settled into a steady mile-eating lope, and the wolves fanned out around them, keeping pace easily, flickering through the trees. Silver gleamed and sparked off the horses' bridles, yet every time Susan closed her eyes against the stinging cold, she could see the rippling of golden firelight.

A time came when they were coming up out of the forest and the trail narrowed, and shaggy trees grew twisted and clinging to the rocks. A long bank fell away beside them, glittering with untouched snow that had only seen the tiny paw prints of a martin since it fell. Susan slowed her mare when the footing became treacherous and behind them, the wolves briefly left their trail, going down to vanish in the pine-grown ravine, with only their long, eerie calls to mark where they were.

"Steady on, Susan," Peter called ahead as his horse stumbled and recovered himself on the ice. Susan's mare was more sure-footed, but was smaller than Peter's stallion, and had tired faster during the long gallop through the snow.

Susan waved her hand at him to show that she had heard, but as the mare put her foot down, something gave in the rock beneath.

Peter saw it all, outlined sharply in silver moonlight. Susan's mare stumbled, fell to the side, and did not recover; she rolled down the slope, and when she finally regained her footing near the bottom, Susan was not to be seen.

Peter did not remember leaping from his horse, only floundering down the slope in snow above his knees that glittered sinisterly in the moonlight. He stumbled to where the mare had fallen, leaving the snow churned and flattened.

"Susan!" he cried. "Susan!"

He saw a hand in the moonlight, then he found her laying half buried in the snow, her eyes closed, her face like the face of a porcelain angel. He fell to his knees next to her, reaching out a blind hand to touch her. His heart froze solid in his chest…then a flood of warmth rushed through him as it melted again. Her eyes were opening.

He reached out to help her and wipe the snow-matted hair from her face as she struggled to sit up.

"Are you injured?" Urgently, Peter began to feel her arms and legs. "Does this hurt?"

She stared dazedly back at him, "Is my mare all right?" she asked thickly.

"Can you see? Can you move your legs?" he spoke more loudly, trying to break into her consciousness. He waved his hand in front of her face, "How many fingers can you see?"

"How is my mare?" Susan asked again, enunciating very carefully. She lifted her hand to wipe more snow from her face.

"What is this?" Peter exclaimed and reached out as a drop of blood hung black from her fingers, then fell to the snow below.

"It's nothing," Susan replied, looking at the stain in the snow curiously. "Where is my mare?"

"Hang the mare!" Peter exploded. "What did you do to your hand?"

He pulled up her sleeve and saw to his relief that she had only skinned her knuckles in the fall, hastily, he pulled out his handkerchief to bind it up.

"Your mare is better off than you are," he said at last, more gently, when he had finished. "Come, put your arms around my neck."

He carried her back up the slope, and the mare followed after them with her head low. Susan swayed, uncertain and shivering when he set her down, but her face lit at the sight of her horse standing uninjured behind Peter.

"On my horse, Susan," he said, steering her towards it.

"I can ride-" Susan began stubbornly, but she could hardly stand, and her teeth were chattering so violently Peter could barely make out the words. He had to catch her when a wave of dizziness washed her against him.

"I can see how fit you are," Peter said shortly, snubbing the reins of Susan's horse to his saddle bow. "Don't argue…we've not much time."

He lifted her up into the saddle, then got on himself, swinging his leg over the horse's head. Susan fell forward against her brother's back, her exhaustion complete, and Peter had to reach for her hands to pull them around his waist.

"Hold on to me," he said, and hoped that she would.

~o*o~

When the trail widened and went back down into the forest, the wolves came again. They were pressing more closely than ever now, and out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Susan's mare, following with white-rimmed eyes.

Peter never hoped to understand the minds of wolves…there were enough of them that they could have brought down even a full grown horse, yet they seemed to be holding back. He knew they were playing a game, just for the fun of it. Sometime, they would grow bored, and there would be no outrunning them.

"Susan, Susan look!" he said and shrugged the shoulder her head rested against to rouse her.

Susan looked up groggily.

The trees had given way to a vast, white plane of glass-sparkling snow, so perfectly silver in the moonlight it seemed to shine with an inner glow. They could see the sea now, black as the night sky, but darker because there were no stars in it, and there, just at the edge of the sea, rising on a noble, rocky hill stood a castle.

Cair Paravel.

Crouched like a lion.

Lit with a thousand golden lights.

It seemed to shine as if a flickering candle burned at its heart and glowed through translucent walls. The cliff below it was black, blacker than coal, but the sea at its foot shimmered and reflected light as if a fairy castle hung upside-down below the real one.

"Home," Susan said and her words were slow and fumbling with cold. "Will we make it in time?"

Peter said nothing, because he could feel beneath him that even his horse was beginning to tire. All around them, the wolves were keeping pace effortlessly, their long legs made for running, reaching forward in cold exhilaration. Susan, as she looked down at them, steaming past the horses' legs like a sea, couldn't help feeling how beautiful, and wild, they were.

"I don't know," Peter said at last in reply to her question.

"We'll try," Susan's voice was calm. She was so cold she had begun to feel warm...a cold, burning warmth.

"I'm sorry…This is all my fault-" Peter spoke low and quiet. "If I had only known…"

"We both made the decision to press on to Cair Paravel, tonight," Susan replied. "It was not your fault."

"If I had only known-" he murmured again

"Dear brother," Susan said softly, her voice muffled in her brother's cloak. "Dearest Peter."

"Forgive me?" Peter asked.

"No," Susan replied, "Do not ask for forgiveness."

And he felt her hand close around his own, the hand he had wrapped with his handkerchief.

"Your hands are ice," he said.

"It doesn't matter," she replied, and burying her face in Peter's cloak, she closed her eyes. She saw rippling firelight…shimmering in a golden sea…just there…she felt she could almost touch it…and bury her fingers in it…burying them without burning…

Peter listened keenly to his horse's breathing. The stallion was snorting with every stride, head low, frozen foam flying from his bit. Peter still reached forward to break the ice from around his horse's nostrils, but it was little use. The horse was shuddering, yet still found the power to stride forward again and again and again…

He would go on until his heart burst, and Peter knew it.

The wolves were all around them now, as if they were riding in a silver sea of bodies. Tongues hung panting in the moonlight, edged with silver, and frothy; iced breath billowed into the air around them. Peter rode on, tense and driven, his leg tight on his horse, but the horse was stumbling and exhausted, and was slowing. At any moment, the game would be over.

"There's nothing for it," Peter said suddenly, his voice only loud enough for Susan to hear.

"I am ready," Susan replied, and behind him, Peter felt her fumbling for the small dagger she carried with her.

"Listen carefully," Peter's voice was as calm and as deep as the summer sea. Her hand was still in his, warmed now in his grasp. "While they are distracted, take my horse and ride from here as quick as you can. With only one rider, he may be able to outdistance them."

"I am _not_ leaving you, Peter."

"You can leave me the mare," he replied firmly. "Be ready."

" _Don't_ be so foolish," Susan whispered urgently, clutching his hand as tightly as she could. " _Don't_ get off the horse!"

At her words, Peter spun the stallion around, its legs churning the snow. The horse stamped, snorted and shuddered as it came to a halt; black sweat had soaked its shoulders and mane and its head hung very low. Firmly, Peter pulled Susan's arms away, thrusting the reins into her hands, and she watched in horror as he swung his leg over the horse's head and dropped into the snow.

"Be quick, Susan," he whispered. She felt his hand grip her ankle in farewell. Then he was out of the horse's shade and in the open, plunging towards the wolves. His shadow streamed behind him.

"Peter!" she choked on his name...It was like that first time he had gone to face a wolf alone…only this time, it was much, much worse…

She no longer saw firelight in her mind's eye: only the black stain of lifeblood, ebbing into the snow like a tide.

 _Oh Aslan,_ she whispered, _Let the only blood shed tonight be mine._

There was a long silence, broken only as the horses breathed in great gasps of stabbing, ice filled air. The wolves pooled around them, forming a great ring about the horses as they sank into the snow ready to spring, their yellow eyes fixed unwaveringly on Peter where he had stopped to stand straight and strong in the moonlight.

The largest wolf of all stepped forward, gray-sided, paws silent in the snow. It sank down slowly, muscles rippling with power; under his cloak, Peter half-drew his sword and braced himself for the spring.

The wolf gazed up with eyes like two full moons,

Panted a moment…

Then spoke.

"Sire, is something wrong? Why have you stopped? Surely the night is too cold for tarrying long."

Peter stared and behind him Susan stifled a cry. All around, the wolves were standing again, and they both realized that the wolves had not been crouching to spring. They had been bowing.

Peter recovered himself, relief and cold making his voice husky, "What is your name, friend?"

"I am Silverfoot," the wolf replied, "And these are my sons. We saw you in the forest several hours ago and thought to offer you our protection." Abruptly the wolf's black-masked face shifted as a look of dismay flickered in his eyes, "I hope there was no misunderstanding."

Peter looked down and his heart twinged. "I will not lie to you," he said quietly. "We believed you were hunting us down."

"Sire, we are true talking beasts of Narnia!" Silverfoot gazed up at Peter with beseeching eyes.

Peter heard the slow footsteps of the stallion as Susan urged him forward, and he reached up in time to take her hand and help her as she slid to the ground. Her legs buckled and stumbling in the snow, she went forward and fell to her knees before the wolf where he sat, watching her in awe.

There was no question of he being a Talking Beast, or she a Queen. Blood seeped through her bandaged hand as she gathered the wolf in her arms and embraced him.

~o*o~

Edmund was there to lift Susan down from the horse; Lucy was laughing as she slipped on the ice that paved the courtyard, and flashed in the colored lights that fell from the stained-glass windows. The exhausted horses were lead away by a groom.

Peter stood, worn and heavy with fatigue. It had not been the weariness of the journey…he was fatigued in spirit, and ashamed; but he was ready to tell Edmund and Lucy all that had passed…about his failures in judgement, about his misunderstanding of the wolves, how their misbegotten haste had nearly killed Susan when her horse fell.

"Come," Edmund was saying, half supporting Susan, "Inside, out of this cold." He flashed a grin at his brother, "Peter, don't just stand there like a dolt."

"Are you all right, Susan?" Lucy asked with a spark of worry. "Did you run into any troubles along the way?"

Susan laughed, and Peter saw her looking at him over Edmund's shoulder with a twinkling gray eye, sparkling with quiet fun. She smiled at him, then turned to the others.

"It was beautiful," she said. "You _should_ have seen the stars…and kind friends accompanied us along the road."

"What have you done to your hand?" Lucy asked, and came closer to look Susan in the face and see the pain and weariness there.

"Oh, it's just a scratch," Susan replied with a playful smile. "And I have a little headache, courtesy of traveling on horseback in the wintertime."

"And now you are here in time for Christmas," Lucy said, wrapping an arm around her sister's waist. "Isn't it wonderful when things work out perfectly?"

Peter shook his head, but Susan only smiled at him once more.

And Susan felt a rare joy as they walked with her into the Great Hall, hung with ivy, and holly and glittering with candles, and a massive, silver-shining tree. The air was murmuring with the voices of rabbits and centaurs, hedgehogs and dryads…a multitude of creatures chattering gaily about decorations, and the best way to tie a red bow on the horns of a wisent. The great Yule log lay like a behemoth on the andirons, and a raging fire blazed on the hearth, a roar of heat going up the chimney and rippling out into the room.

Afterwards Peter and Susan were still sitting in front of the fire, sunk into a reverie as they finally banished the cold from their bodies. Behind them, the squirrel choir was singing, and making mistakes and laughing (and throwing acorns at each other at regular intervals), and Lucy and Edmund were arguing about who forgot to put the star on top of the tree.

"Thank you," Susan said, her voice only a little louder than the voice of the fire, "for being a Most Noble brother."

Peter looked at her in confusion.

"There is no need to be ashamed," she continued softly, "of being a man who admits to mistakes he never made, and lays down his life, even if there was never any danger."

Peter said nothing, but Susan smiled as she watched him stare into the heart of the fire. Her eyes wandered to the beautiful and ever changing pattern, and as she watched the reflection of flames rippling across the shadowed wall, she suddenly remembered the firelight that had rippled behind her closed eyes as she rode through the ice-cold night.

The wonderful was never very far from the terrible…it was just there, just on the other side of it, like a little glimmer of light in nighttime, shining under an unlocked door. Now that all was calm and peaceful, and the cold winter's night was only dark blue velvet pressed against the windows, Susan remembered what she had seen while she lay unconscious those few moments after her horse had fallen.

That time, she knew it had not been firelight, at all...But the flickering of Aslan's mane, blown by the last cold breaths of the Winter that had fled at the sound of his Roar.

* * *

 _He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God._  
~ Aeschylus

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I came up with this while I was in an MRI machine. Since the experience is less than pleasant, it's important to have a plan in place to keep your mind occupied for the Duration. The process goes something like this: nurses tackle you and insert an IV lead into your arm, they proceed to hogtie you, strap you to a table which was specifically designed not to accommodate the human body, roll you into a ridiculously large paper-towel tube, and proceed to fire machine guns next to your head for the next hour.

I'm joking of course; this is only what an MRI _feels_ like, not what it is.

I hope no-one has ever used the name 'Silverfoot' before. If you have, let me know; I'd be glad to change the name. It just happened to be the only thing that came to mind at the time.

I have to admit, I kept thinking of the imagery of the fire of roses that lay on the hearth in Irene's Grandmother's attic room in George MacDonald's _The_ _Princess and the Goblin_ , and how, whenever someone was dirty, or injured, they only needed to bury themselves in that fire to be cleaned and healed.

I was attempting to write a kind of 'two sided' story…where what at first seems infinitely terrible turns out to be infinitely wonderful…rather the way a door may be frosted with cold on the Outside, but keeping in the warmth on the Inside. Only with the greatest sacrifice can one have the greatest gain.

This is the link to the contest in case you would like to participate! The more the merrier! (ff).net(slash)forum/A-Holiday-Prompt-Contest/198114/

Merry Christmas!

~Rose and Psyche

 **PS:** When I was a little girl (indeed, it's still true now) my mother used to wash blue jeans and hang them out on the line in the wintertime to get a little of the damp out of them. By the time we went out to get them, they had frozen completely solid and it was possible to stand them up on their own.


End file.
